


A Lady Born And Raised

by FreedomWriter



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Diana Barry Stands Up For Herself, Diana Barry deserved better, Diana-centric, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, How I wish Diana's character arc had gone, POV Female Character, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, apologies are made
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21558850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreedomWriter/pseuds/FreedomWriter
Summary: Maybe she isn't a bird. Maybe she is some other animal, one that uses every weapon it has to attain its ends..In which Diana Barry stands up and takes what she wants. Gently, as a lady does.
Relationships: Diana Barry & Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Comments: 14
Kudos: 161





	1. A lady's armour is her courtesy

**Author's Note:**

> I really loved the finale, but the progression of Diana's character vis-a-vis herself left me a little cold. So I wrote this.

Her father is shouting. Her mother is crying.

Diana Barry lets it all wash over her- there is anger on her face, she knows, but she lets it be. She _is_ angry. She is _betrayed._

Her greatest achievement, treated like a crime. A mere mile away, she knows, Anne is being congratulated and hugged and gushed over this very minute, by parents who have never _dreamt_ of holding her back, holding her _down._

What does it matter, all of Diana’s wealth and beauty and grace, what does any of it matter if her own parents rage over the fact that she has an _achievement_ instead of an _accomplishment_? Diana has envied Anne’s brains, her unrestrained imagination, her sometimes reckless courage- the courage of her own convictions- but she has never, _never_ envied her her family.

Until now.

Her father is growling something about _you will be finished_ , and that word, that infuriating, restraining _word_ , unties Diana’s tongue.

_You will be finished._

“Why is it,” And she doesn’t stop her voice from shaking, because she doesn’t want to pretend to be some _young lady_ with ice for blood. “That my desires- what I want- has no place in this house?” There are tears in her eyes; Diana’s voice breaks and she hates, hates, _hates_ it.

She throws herself onto her bed to enjoy a hearty cry, hating her family for their narrow-mindedness, and hating her _self_ , because she can’t make them _understand_.

* * *

By the time Anne barrels into her room, Diana has a plan. She will not lie in bed, weeping about being unable to fly. Maybe she isn’t meant to be a bird- maybe she will be far more ruthless.

“Here,” She presses a letter, signed and sealed, into Anne’s hands. “I can’t leave the house. Could you post that for me, please, Anne?”

Anne’s grey eyes are full of tears. “They clipped your wings.”

Diana turns away. “I don’t have wings.” She replies, and her voice would be cold if not for the smirk on her lips. “But I might have claws.” She looks back- Anne is gaping at her, and this would all be so comical if it weren’t so very real. “I’m coming to Queen’s.”

 _Miss Josephine Barry_ , the envelope proclaims in Diana’s flawless, ladylike script.

* * *

Aunt Jo, it must be said, knows how to make an entrance. Diana had chosen her words carefully, and it is a stone-faced, angry woman who disembarks from her carriage three days later.

“Aunt!” William Barry is surprised, his wife concerned and suspicious. “What- what a pleasant surprise!”

“We are very happy to see you, Aunt,” Eliza Barry says. “But we’re not sure-”

Josephine sniffs. “Oh, you will be.” She replies, eschewing any pretence of politeness. “And _happy_ isn’t the word I’d use, William. But I’d like to sit down, if you don’t mind.” She catches sight of her grand-niece then, and her visage brightens like the sun. “Diana, dear heart!”

She floats out of the parlour, all tutored grace and unrestrained smile. Despite the calculation and the circumstances, she _is_ happy to see her aunt. “Welcome back, Aunt Jo.” She kisses both wizened cheeks, and allows herself to luxuriate in the pride and joy in the older woman’s eyes. “I’m so pleased you could come.”

“What is this? Diana, did you invite your aunt here without my permission?” Eliza enquires, her voice rising in a sharp reprimand. But it’s Aunt Jo who replies, asking if she truly needs an _invitation_ to visit her only living family. The arched eyebrow that accompanies the query is _masterly_ , and Diana resolves to learn that one.

Pretty soon, they’re seated in the parlour- everyone, sans Minnie May- drinking tea out of Eliza Barry’s best china. The tea is excellent, as always, and Diana takes small sips, little finger sticking out, as she was taught. The atmosphere reminds her of those awful days after Nate had absconded with their money- the books on her head and curtsies and her mother’s jagged pain and fear and anger always one misstep away. Now, Diana breathes in the explosive air and makes ready to set it alight.

Aunt Jo is not here to speak for her.

“Mother, Father,” She places the teacup down with nary a sound. “I think it’s time we talked.”

William glances at his wife; Eliza glares at her daughter. “I hardly think this is the appropriate-”

“It is, actually.” Diana interrupts, flushing at the lapse of manners. “Because Aunt Jo is here at _my_ request and what I have to say concerns her as well.”

No one replies. There’s a peculiar look in Aunt Jo’s eyes as she regards her grand-niece. Diana’s palms are very dry. She folds her hands together in her lap, the picture of the demure lady Mother wants her to be, and begins.

“I’m not going to Paris.”

 _Well_. Aunt Jo actually leans back a little as the statement falls like a club. She wants to laugh. She wants to cheer.

Predictably, it’s Eliza who recovers first. “Diana!” She gasps, furious eyes fixed on her elder daughter- she’s seated as a lady should be, and if one took _words_ out of the picture, Diana would truly be the young lady she was raised her to be. “How _dare_ you-”

“We have had this discussion!” William stands, face already an alarming cherry shade. “After your _deceitful_ , _ungrateful_ behaviour in sneaking away to write that blasted exam-”

“The exam I passed without a _shred_ of study.” Diana interrupts once more. Her voice is cool, her gaze is steady, and her words cut through her parents’ outbursts. “I passed _respectably_ , beating several of my classmates who spent months preparing-”

“It doesn’t matter!” Her father shouts, bringing a hand down flat on the mantelpiece. The _thud_ makes Diana flinch; she doesn’t think her father would ever strike her, but that little gesture gives her pause all the same. Josie Pye never thought Billy Andrews would- would _force_ her. Prissy never thought Mr Phillips would bring out the cane.

Beside him, Mother has already dissolved into tears. But this time, Diana is careful to appear unmoved- she _hates_ her mother’s tears at any time, but at this moment, she hates how her mother can seemingly call them out at a moment’s notice to get her way. _Look what you’ve done to your mother_.

Aunt Jo is very quiet, and Diana is grateful.

“You _will_ be finished in Paris, and then you _will_ find a worthy husband to court and marry- and then you can do as you please, if he likes!” William’s tone is almost venomous. Diana will not recoil, but at this moment, she remembers her mother saying that all girls love men who are like their fathers, and knows it to be a _lie_. Diana will never love _anyone_ like her father.

“I won’t.” She keeps her tone steady, despite the anger and grief and impending loss howling through her veins. She knows her parents, and they won’t listen if she yells like a child, as she’s been doing for weeks.

(If she had made her point as concisely, as calmly as she’s doing now, Diana wonders what she could’ve done with a few more months of study. She’s not as clever as Anne or Gilbert, but she _is_ clever. She wonders how her test scores might have looked if she had behaved like the adult she wanted to be treated as)

“I won’t go to Paris. I’ve done well enough for a place at Queen’s, and Anne’s boarding-house in Charlottetown has one more vacancy.” She likes that word, _vacancy._ An empty space, waiting for her to fill it and give it weight. A place.

“I’m going to Queen’s Academy with Anne and Ruby and all the others. I’ve made enquiries- I’ll be able to study music, to learn more than I’ve ever learned before,” _More than I’ve ever been allowed, more than you’ve ever permitted me to learn_ “And even _if_ the vacancy at the boarding-house is taken before I can write to them, I’ve requested Aunt Jo to allow me to live with her for the duration of my studies.”

“And I have permitted it.” Aunt Jo speaks for the first time since Diana began her crusade. “She’ll have access to even more masters and performers through my influence, and my home is always open for those who favour the pursuit of knowledge.”

Her parents stare at them, open-mouthed. Mother even forgets to weep.

“And how will you _pay_ for this- this madness?” William sneers. “Because I tell you now, Miss Diana, I certainly will not.”

Miss Barry looks at him then, and the scorn on her face is unmistakeable. “I knew you were a fool, nephew, but I never realised quite how much.” Her father flushes even deeper at this pronouncement. “ _Naturally_ , I will pay for this so-called _madness_ , if _you_ choose to shirk your duty.”

Her parents’ fight collapses quite spectacularly after that, and Diana, keen to bring this to an end, volunteers to show her aunt to her room. As she closes the parlour door, she catches sight of her father’s face- he looks… flabbergasted. She hides a smile and pulls the door to.

* * *

“I- Aunt Jo, I didn’t ask you to pay for my schooling.” Diana’s fingers pick at a thread of her dress.

“But you knew I would say it.” Aunt Jo nods; there’s no question in her eyes, and Diana flushes with shame. “I did.” She admits, looking away. “I- I knew Father would bring up the money, and I was equally sure you’d vouch for me. But that doesn’t mean you _have_ to- in fact, I’d be happy only living with you and paying my own way!” She knows, she _knows_ she’s talking nonsense- whatever she might earn from teaching music or governessing, it would never pay for her tuition at Queen’s, let alone any higher. But she’s taken advantage of her aunt, and she doesn’t want Aunt Jo to think her _mercenary_ -

A cackle cuts her short. “Oh, dear heart,” Aunt Jo’s eyes are merry and warm, like Cole’s are, like Mary’s used to be. Diana misses Mary. “I’m _delighted_ you took me for granted. Who else can one depend upon if not one’s family?”

Diana sighs, and it’s only half relief. “That _is_ the question, isn’t it?” She murmurs. The bedspread is a cool, regal blue- it suits her aunt, Diana thinks, though purple is really the colour for her spirit. Mother loved blue, however, loved how it brought out her daughter’s dark, shining hair and pale skin- and Diana wonders whether Eliza Barry would have loved her if she hadn’t been beautiful, and if she will love her now that Diana has refused to _only_ be beautiful.

A wrinkled hand cups her chin. “They’ll come around, dear heart,” She assures her, before drawing Diana’s head down to her bosom. The girl closes her eyes. “And if they don’t, then you will always have a family with myself and Cole and Anne, and anyone else you choose.”

And Diana, who has seen the way Anne draws people in and makes a family out of them, who has seen the severity of Miss Cuthbert’s brow and the stoop to Mr Cuthbert’s shoulders ease in the years since Anne’s arrival, agrees. And she cries.

* * *

That night, Diana and Aunt Jo dine with the Cuthberts and the Blythe-Lacroix family. They celebrate Anne and Gilbert’s achievement, and both Anne and Marilla _gush_ over Diana’s own scores and her brains and her sheer, unmitigated _bravery._ Anne’s eyes are very bright, and she means every word (it’s Anne, of course she does), so maybe she _was_ brave.

And if she _was_ brave, Diana muses, gazing out at the darkened barn, surely she can be brave one more time.


	2. i'm a slow learner; but i learn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know it's been forever, but this chapter wouldn't co-operate. The last 200-odd words were just... stuck. Thankfully they came together into something resembling coherence today, so I figured I'd better post it. If I sit on it any longer it'll hatch into babies.

Here’s the thing- Diana likes Jerry Baynard. Likes how tall he is, how warm and giddy that made her feel inside; she likes how he always let _her_ decide how far was too far; he likes how he listens to her, and if he maybe comments a little _too_ often how pretty she is, she lets it slide because he means– just that. Only that.

And then, there are things she _loves_ about Jerry- his family, for one; the warmth of his home that owes very little to fireplaces. She’s met them only once but she loves his family. _Frankenstein_ was truly a marvellous book- Diana loves that Jerry had painstakingly made his way through it, and that he had wanted to share it with her. They had been soft, then.

Diana wishes she hadn’t been so thoughtless, so cavalier with them- with him. She has been raised better than that.

So she gathers up all the courage she’s only just begun to know, and strides into the barn. He’s tending Belle and her foal, but he looks up at the sound of her throat clearing.

And then… he looks away.

Diana _aches_. “Jerry–”

He doesn’t step away from the horses, but he does look at her. Jerry has always been a very polite boy.

“Miss Barry.” He doesn’t quite meet her eye, focusing instead on her right shoulder. “Anne is in the house with Miss Cuthbert.”

Fidgeting is a horrid habit, but Diana can’t quite control how her hands twisted together before her. “No– I know– I came to speak with you.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, but his face- he’s wondering what she could possibly have to say to him. What _more._

Diana steps closer, as though he were a skittish horse. “Jerry,” She bit her lip. “ _May_ I speak with you?”

He sighs- she sees rather than hears it- and nods once, short and sharp.

“I- I just…” God, why is this so _hard_? She had _practised_ , but she can’t remember a word of it now. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

His chin jerks up. Diana swallows. “I treated you badly, Jerry– I shouldn’t have… I was so– I was scared, and pretending… I led you on, let you think there was– there _could_ be more–”

As always, he lets her get it all out; get there in her own time and her own way. No one but Anne has ever given her that before, and Anne’s always been the talker out of the two of them. Here, Diana’s the talker, and no very articulate one, but Jerry lets her talk her way through something. He has the patience of a saint.

“–and I hoped that Paris would cause a natural end, but then Anne found out and she was so angry, and I was angry with her too, but that–” Diana drew a shuddering breath. “That gave me no right to treat you so– so _badly_.” Her lip trembles, and she hates herself. “I’m so sorry, Jerry.”

It will never be enough, Diana knows. There is nothing she can do to erase the humiliation and hurt she’d dealt this boy who has always been nothing but decent to her– more than decent. Kind. Gentle. Loving, even.

She swallows past the lump in her throat. No one has ever made her feel the way Jerry did– the way he _does_. It hurts to acknowledge that, but she deserves it. There can be nothing in their future but separation and heartbreak– and wouldn’t it be kinder to pull away now, while they are still children by some definition, instead of once they have fallen in love and dreamt sweet dreams that will only turn bitter on their tongues?

“It’s okay, Miss Barry.” Jerry’s soft voice breaks into her thoughts. When Diana looks at him, his eyes is as gentle as his tone; he knows, too, how they will end if they don’t end now. “I forgive you.”

She can’t help it– she can’t help surging forward and burying her face in his straw-speckled shirt. “I’m _sorry_ ,” she sobs, again and again. “I’m sorry, Jerry.”

What is she apologising for– for her insults, for not being strong enough to stay, or for allowing this to begin in the first place? Diana doesn’t know; but whatever she means, one or both or all at once, she thinks Jerry might. He only hesitates a little before placing his hands on her back, and for every apology that tumbles out of her mouth, all he says is: “Je comprends.”

* * *

When Diana returns home after another laughing ramble through the woods with Anne and Ruby, it’s to the sight of her mother bidding Miss Cuthbert goodbye. “Oh! Miss Cuthbert, how lovely to see you!” She exclaims, skipping up to the older woman and kissing her on the cheek. “I’ve just been with Anne and Ruby- she said she was going to look in on Bash and Delly before turning her steps homewards.”

“Thank you for telling me, Diana– knowing her, she would have said those very words.” Marilla’s tone is both dry and fond. “Good day, Eliza. Thank you for the scones– they were delicious.”

“Thank you for coming, Marilla. Please, give my regards to Matthew and Anne.” Mrs Barry says and smiles politely, but there’s something brittle there that Diana can’t place.

Later, her mother comes to her room– after dinner, after putting Minnie May and her husband to bed. Diana’s tucked into her blankets; Aunt Jo had brought with her a thick tome that she said would prepare Diana well for college, so it might be time to start on it.

Except that her mother comes in, forcing her to put her book aside. “Mother? Is everything alright?”

“Yes– don’t worry– everyone’s asleep.” Eliza sounds tentative. “May I speak with you a moment, Diana?”

“Of course, Mother– do sit down.” Diana sits a little straighter, wondering if this conversation will require armour.

But Mother doesn’t begin. She sits, her hands twisting together, indecision in every movement. At length, Diana ventures with, “Are _you_ alright, Mother?”

That seems to be the wrong thing to say– Mother’s eyes fill with tears. “How can you ask me that?” She wipes at her eyes, and Diana already wants out. She can’t deal with her mother’s blaming and dramatics anymore–

“How can I be alright when I feel as though I barely know my own child?”

And– that is not what she’d expected. She was ready for remonstrances and recriminations and tearful predictions of dire consequences, not for… whatever this might be called.

Eliza Barry looks lost, confused, like a mare caught in a downpour. The unpoetic simile nearly makes Diana smile.

“You were always my pride and joy, my greatest achievement.” Mrs Barry continues. “People would look at you and think of how beautiful you are, how well I raised you– because I _have_.” This is said with something approaching defiance. “I raised you to be a lady, Diana, and you _are_.”

Diana exhales.

“And I wish I could say that this… all these _modern_ ideas came from Anne, but that’s not true, is it?”

She wants to flare, to blaze, but this is not the moment for that. Blazing and burning and shining is for Anne, and Diana loves to watch her do it. But Diana needs to be more than Anne: she needs to be herself.

 _Who is Diana Barry?_ Once, she had been Eliza and William’s eldest, Minnie May’s sister; she’d been the prettiest girl in Avonlea and the richest, the one with the lovely dresses and the raven-black hair and forget-me-not eyes; she’d been the young lady bound for Paris; destined for a great match, a young man to match her impeccable descent. Only…

“Mother, please don’t mistake me.” She folds her hands and rests them on her lap. “I love you, and Father too. I love how you raised me– that you taught me how to speak, and how to walk, and conduct myself in company, and… and how to be a lady. I love the dresses and the manners and– and all of it. But Mother… I’m more than all of that.” The last word comes out as something of a sigh.

Elizabeth blinks. “Well, of course you are, darling,” She agrees. “You’re our daughter.” And Diana will always love her for the pride in her voice, but that’s not the point either.

 _“Diana is a budding pianist herself._ ” Her mother’s brow furrows; those aren’t words she recognises. “Aunt Josephine said that, at her soiree.” Diana can’t quite keep her cheeks from flushing; her own behaviour at the soiree isn’t something she will ever be proud of. “She introduced me to Madamoiselle Chaminade like that: _Diana is a budding pianist herself_.”

“Do you see, Mother? No one ever talked about my abilities before– introduced me in the capacity of what I _do_. I love being your daughter, and I love being thought beautiful, and I love Minnie May no matter how often she hides in my closet… but Mother, I am _more than that_.”

Eliza stands up, abruptly. “I should have known–” She struggles with her tears a moment. “Of course Aunt would put these ideas into your head–”

Something in her brain _snaps_.

“You must think me a fool, Mother,” Diana’s cheeks flush again, but her eyes flash too. “Or a complete _idiot_ , quite incapable of calculating more than the sugar needed for my husband’s tea!” She flings back the covers. “Thank you for making your opinion of me _crystal_ -clear, despite _all_ the evidence to the contrary. Such as _test scores_.” Elizabeth jumps back at Diana leaps off the bed and crosses over to her desk, where Miss Stacey’s final report and her pass certificate lie. She all but _throws_ it at her mother’s gaping face. “Look at this! Do you think these people graded me on my face, or my carriage, or my curtsey? Do you think they cared?!”

She’s shouting now, and her mother is horrified and those are her father’s footsteps, and the frightening thing is that Diana does not care. Aunt Jo is not here to support her and she _does not care_.

“They think I’m clever, don’t you understand! They think I’m a person with a brain and reasonable ability! These people have probably never seen a woman like Miss Stacey, and they _think that the person who wrote my exams is worth something!_ ”

Her father is in her bedroom now, and for once, he’s not shouting. He’s not speaking. He’s just staring, eyes wide, staring at her like he’s never seen her before. Maybe he hasn’t; if she looked in the mirror, she wouldn’t recognise herself either. Her throat burns, and for the first time, it’s not with grief.

She inhales, resetting her bones and heart and voice into something more familiar to these two whom she adores and resents in equal measure. “I’m tired. I apologise for waking you, Father,” She says. She’s grateful that Minnie May’s still sound asleep. “But I’d like to go to bed now.

Later, when they leave, Diana curls up, terribly proud and terribly sad. She has never shouted at her parents, has never been angry enough for it. But the pride she feels now is not for that; for several long moments, under her parents’ stares, something black and oily and bitter had bubbled in her stomach, and a part of her had wanted, more than anything else, to spit it out.

 _“I want to be able to help my children with their homework,_ Mother _.”_

How easy it would have been to say that, to set on fire her parents’ already-crumbling image of her. But she didn’t, and Diana is proud of that.

Eliza Barry raised a lady, and a lady is not cruel.

* * *

Diana is playing the piano when Anne leaves Green Gables for Charlottetown. She’ll see her in a few days anyway, when her lease begins, and every moment spent practising makes up for every minute she once spent bemoaning her fate. Father has agreed– with a surprising amount of grace– to escort her to the boarding-house, and Mother is currently looking through her impressive stack of periodicals, marking the designs and hairstyles that she thinks both elegant and simple, appropriate for a young lady entering public life for the first time. This is, after all, some sort of debut, and no Barry debutante has ever looked less than her best.

She hears her father in the hall, talking about Gilbert’s ‘impending nuptials’, and immediately switches to a softer, more tender tune. Father tells her mother about Gilbert’s _ambition_ and other _admirable_ qualities, and fury, hot and red, bubbles under her tongue. This, Diana vows, she will not push down.

She doesn't. 

* * *

Her father orders for Gilbert’s luggage to be loaded onto their carriage, and she loves him for it. She wants to pick up her skirts and run through town, just to ensure that that _stupid_ boy and her _stupid_ friend finally get their _stupid_ stars uncrossed. Diana has taken on her parents and won; she’ll wrench Anne and Gilbert’s _stupid_ fates back into line if she has to.

It's a relief to see she doesn’t, though.

Gilbert has to run, like Cinderella, but Anne’s blue eyes are shining again, and the all-encompassing zest for life has returned to them. All is right with the world again as Anne throws her arms around her, Diana squeezes back, and they stand arm-in-arm as Gilbert climbs into the carriage.

But then he leaps out, and Diana’s jaw drops when Anne and Gilbert come together like lightning and thunder.

They’re the perfect storm, and Diana’s blood pulses in her veins at the realisation of what love looks like, what love _must_ look like. Surely it looks like this: Anne and Gilbert clutching at each other, all relief and newness and desperation, like Anne’s dishevelled hair curling over her shoulder, her slim fingers tangled in Gilbert’s hair. Surely it looks like Gilbert Blythe, always so cool and measured, practically falling out the carriage as he drives away, neck craning to drink in the sight of Anne until he rounds the corner. Surely it’s this, Anne’s unashamed, delighted giggle just before Miss Cuthbert and Mr Cuthbert appear, red-faced and too breathless than can be perfectly healthy at their age.

Surely it looks like something worth waiting for.

* * *

Diana is not asleep; she watches Anne sit at the vanity, staring at her own reflection, at her delicate bones and the fiery hair that not even a demure braid can dull.

She had danced around the room, ecstatic at the Cuthberts’ discovery, and the gift of Bertha Shirley’s book– the gift of her past. Diana had joined her, tears running down her cheeks. She remembers the discomfort of that class on lineages and genealogies; how Anne, who had impressed upon Mary Lacroix how vital it was that her daughter knew beyond all doubt that her mother had loved, adored, _wanted_ her, had never had the same– except that now she did.

It did not make Walter and Bertha Shirley one jot less dead; but it has given Anne a past, something she can hold up and say _This is where I come from_ , _this is who I am._

Diana has not much imagination, and the idea of imagining herself without her illustrious family tree scares her silly, so she’s never tried. It breaks her heart, knowing that Anne has never had to imagine such a frightening thing, and what is important to Anne will always be important to Diana.

Anne will be happy, and more brilliant than ever before. There will be more summer soirees at Aunt Jo’s; Cole will create beautiful things to his heart’s content, and perhaps one day a beautiful romance of his own; Ruby and Moody will court, and possibly make a match of it, or at least come out wiser; Josie Pye will… well, at least she seems less haunted than she was, and she seems to think more than she used to. They all do, even Jane, even Tilly, even if it’s mostly about which Paul she’s going to let escort her to their first formal.

Diana will rise in the morning, early as a lady, and put on her new corset. She will measure her breathing as she pulls it tight, and smile as it stiffens her crystalising spine, a new armour, a new shield. She will wear her hair up and put on her blue hat and take the place she has earned. She will watch Anne flash fire and burn everyone who dares to tell her _no_. Diana will hold her train at her wedding, and hold _her_ when Anne deigns to rest in between remaking their world.

She is not a revolutionary, not a spitfire– Diana is a woman learning to want, to ask for what she wants, to grind herself to the bone to get what she wants. And when she is told _no_ , she will take it.

Gently, as a lady does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes this two-shot! Hope y'all enjoyed my exploration of Diana and this attempt to resolve her arc in a more satisfactory way than it turned out in canon. She really deserved the chance to have a good yell. Dalila was robbed. ROBBED I tell you. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


End file.
